


Vessels

by frangipani



Series: Citadel of Shattered Mirrors [2]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, PWP, clone!Luke/Mara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani
Summary: She'll miss him like she misses herself. Like she misses the girl she used to be when she saw her master as infallible.A missing scene forCitadel of Shattered Mirrors





	Vessels

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make a whole lot of sense if you haven't read Citadel. Picks up right middle of ch3.

She doesn't bother cleaning up. It doesn't really matter if he's going to fuck her again. Claria reaches out as she goes to the room. Stasia's gone, downstairs it seems. She frowns a little. It's fine. She climbs up on the bed. There's a containment field.

Stasia's bred for discretion.

Iska's hand is at her back. “She's gone.” She stops as his hand trails down her spine. “Some of that was for her benefit, I take it.” His hand leaves her spine, insinuates itself between her wet thighs.

It occurs to her she could play coy and close her legs, but their first tryst had only reminded her it's been two months. 

No one touches her like he does.

So she spreads her legs, curves her back, rewarded by those talented fingers of his. Essence transfer is something, Claria thinks as his fingers glide teasingly across her slit, the seam of her thigh. All those new vessels and he's always remembered how to touch her.

“You _have_ missed me.”

“Again? I hope you don't say those imbeci--” Claria grunts as he shoves two fingers inside her. It's startling, but she's too slick from earlier for it to be anything else. A shift of her hips and she draws air, nerves flaring, rolls her hips again and stifles a moan, a bit of amazement. He's not even moving his fingers.

“I was thinking for a moment talking about the old master before Stasia might interfere,” Iska says conversationally. His voice dips in amusement. “But nothing does. You want me. Always.”

She does hate him, she thinks. Even if she is here spreading her legs for him like a whore, his come dripping down her thighs. That was a mistake, but it's too late to correct it. She hadn't even known she'd been susceptible. Maybe it’d been destiny from the moment she'd knelt by her master and he'd gestured to Iska. 

He'd had boyish eyes then, as much a stranger to Byss, in some ways, as she. 

_This is Vader's lost son_ , her master had said. _He will serve me. Take him under your care._

She'd learned quickly he wasn't Vader's son. Not technically. And he'd never been under her care. Not technically.

Claria rolls her hips again and his fingers move in soft, languid strokes. Her breaths come quicker at the build of hot tension in her belly. His fingers draw away too quickly. 

“Turn around.”

Iska's never liked fucking her from behind. Truthfully, maybe her own proclivities sneaked through when they'd started sharing a bed. She likes looking at him like he likes to be looked at. She likes his body over hers too, liked at one point feeling his calluses after long months then years of blade training, liked scrutinizing every bruise he received under the blademaster, the scars he returned with after his visit to Kursid with her master. Claria misses them, but likes feeling the dip of his biceps, too, the span of his shoulders. Likes the way the vessels always respond to her touch. She's made them that way.

She'd never even suspected her master had been grooming Iska as an apprentice. How stupid of her.

His hand doesn't return between her legs, he climbs up over her, cock hard already and dripping at her hip. These bodies are a wonder. 

Iska huffs a laugh she feels at her shoulder. “I told you,” he says as she shivers, “No one has your touch.” He punctuates it with a kiss at the juncture between her shoulder and neck. 

Claria doesn't want to think of that right now though. “Just fuck me again.”

He laughs down at her the dark edge of it slightly off in the boy's face he wears. “The vessel is an adolescent. I'm not.”

Iska ducks his head to nuzzle her neck and she squirms, bringing her arms around his shoulders as he kisses and licks his way down her chest, lips tugging at one nipple while he rolls and pinches the other. She's writhing, hips pushing up against his chest by the time his lips skim her belly, feeling searing and liquid, forgetting Stasia, forgetting her plans, her hate, in favor of the incredible sensations he draws from her.

He's right, that she's missed him even with all she's had to occupy her. She loathes that, but she loathes that vague doubt at the core of her over what she’s about to do _more_.

What she’ll deprive herself off.

She'd taught him too well. And maybe she shouldn't have taught him this, Claria manages to think as she hears herself moan, wanton and exuberant. 

Iska leans back up capturing her lips, tongue exploring her mouth, a counterpoint to the hand dipping between her legs. Her hips buck as he strokes her, and her body snaps back all the heat coalescing into a delicious quiver that robs her of breath.

But the aftershocks haven't fully faded before he scoots down, dropping between her legs, tongue licking a stripe along her labia. She shifts away on instinct, but his hands fall at her hips pinning her.

Irritation mars the pleasantly loose feeling and she scowls at him. “Enough. Just fuck me.”

His eyes gleam. “I decide when and how. Or have you forgotten?”

“You have something to prove tonight?” she sneers.

“Seems _you_ do," he snaps back.

The corner of Claria's lip tips. “The scratching?” Just a few moments ago she’d scratched hard down his side as she came. In truth she hardly recalls it, her head had been swimming. She'd even forgotten Stasia had been watching. But looking down his back to his side, she thinks she might see some red.

“All that new skin,” she murmurs, reaching to sink her fingers into his hair. “How could I resist?”

He grunts in lieu of an answer, parting her, tongue tracing paths that make her hiss along her already sensitive flesh. It's uncomfortable, it's meant to be punishing, until he eases up and works his fingers back into her slowly, that almost lazy rhythm making a different kind of heat build in her belly. Punishing in a different way. Her hips rock back in rhythm when his mouth returns between her legs. 

It's still uncomfortable, painful even. She finds a whine breaking from her at the sting as she breathes. She's much too sensitive. Too much. With a cry she pushes her hips up to move away, but he holds them. She tries with her hands, but can't move. Of course. He's probably been meaning to do this since she'd scratched him. 

Hissing a curse, Claria keeps struggling, Iska doesn't stop and soon there's a definite tension from the slide of his fingers that halts her protests, and makes her angry grunts change to needy moans. It still hurts now, but she's _close_ , her body arching, hips grinding harder against his hand, and through the pain, there's something else, a precipice.

Not a fall. A crash. Like something solid she's slammed into, impact that shakes her from inside out and leaves her gasping in the briefest rapture.

She registers Iska licking into her mouth, wet cock dragging against her thigh. Her world is fuzzy at the edges, scratched dull pain between her legs.

“I killed him because of you,” Iska pants.

Claria blinks at him. Thinks of of wounds that won't close. If Iska can be said to love anything it's to keep that particular wound from closing. To reopen it at every opportunity. 

She dares think Stasia won't bear this before she catches herself.

He swoops in to kiss her hard, pulls away with a fevered look, lips beginning to roam down her body again. He is none the wiser.

“Iska.” Her voice sounds worn to her ears as he bites at her thigh. “Enough.”

“Quiet." 

She tries to squirm. “Just fuck me if you're going to fuck me.”

“No.” He lifts his head. “You're going to come for me again.”

She shakes her head.

He ignores her, fingers dipping inside her. She grunts, raw scratching inside of her making her tense, and she tamps down on a grimace.

Claria wills herself to relax. Her body knows it’s possible to swim through it. With a deep breath, she rocks her hips, heat spreads little by little, and more when Iska obliges with a stroke off center. She's just started to float when he flashes her a wolfish smile and rubs too close to her oversensitive clit.

She cries out at the sting and tries to kick away. He has her pinned now, his weight on her legs.

Claria gulps air knowing better than to protest now. Swim through, she thinks, forcing her hips to roll against his fingers. Tears are prickling at the corner of her eyes at the torturous excess of it, sensation like a violent stream, and still, she rocks harder against his fingers. She bites her lip, meets his blue eyes with challenge. All his power has never changed her. It cannot. Pain and pleasure have limits. The darkened soul has none.

It takes long enough that she feels her face wet with sweat, hair sodden, his gaze set on her as he watches her push herself onto his fingers, grasping for her climax though the lancing of overstimulation. 

When she reaches it it's like dissolving into prickling warmth, gone too soon, leaving her aching in soreness, her body slack and heavy. She barely feels when he settles fully between her legs and pushes in, a hand on her hip and another on the side of her face. What else must he be seeing but her unfocused eyes and swollen mouth? It hurts but not enough to pull her out of her haze.

And he likes this. Iska's always liked getting her fuck drunk and wholly pliant under him. She's thought it was a substitute for power way back when he'd been under her care. Maybe it's simple deviancy. He is an unnatural creation, after all. And the real...she turns her thoughts away. No more, she thinks. No more thinking tonight. Too dangerous.

One thought blazes unstoppable, nonetheless. Her master. Always her master. _He_ had been beyond the flesh. A true ascetic. Power had been his only consort. Iska is not like him. Neither is she. To her shame. 

Iska's hips crash into hers, his head burrowing into her neck when he comes. 

He shifts beside her, fingers trailing down her arm, then down to the mess between her thighs. She flinches instinctively and he laughs huskily.

“Disgusting,” she mumbles, wondering that fascination is Iska's particular perversion. She's never been curious enough to invite anyone else to her bed since him, and long forgotten the one or two she’d bedded before. Without him her alchemy could be enough. It would have been enough. But he'd been given over to her, or so she thought, once. And after, she'd become used to hating him from this close. It'd made her a little less lonely, a little less hollow, made Stasia's contempt tolerable.

How will she bear life without them?

Maybe she won't have to.

“Be my apprentice, Claria,” Iska cajoles. “Your master is seven years dead and Stasia is no longer a child. Your excuses are pathetic.”

“I will not leave her.”

“She wants to be left.” Iska lifts his eyebrows at her. “You've made her despise you.” 

“Then she'll make a better Sith than I.” She makes her lips form a smile. “It's her you should want and fear.”

“One day,” he replies lightly. “But you've made her love me. That day is distant yet. I much prefer _your_ want and fear.” He runs his hands up and down her sides. “You can deny me nothing.”

She turns her head and ignores the last. They both know it isn't true. “I don't fear you, Iska. I know you too well.” Her smile turns sardonic when she meets his eyes. “I've made you what you are.” She lifts a hand to her face, rubbing her forehead. “But fine. Stasia wants more independence. I'll accept your apprenticeship. I require six more months with her and then you may send her to continue under Sedriss.” She lowers her hand. “You will have to deprive Sedriss and the admirals of your company. It isn't prudent to leave the Citadel without one of us.”

“In six months the adepts in Ziost will be ready to support those with the admirals. I can spare several months. By then we can call Stasia back to oversee the Citadel while we check up on the adepts.”

“Well, then. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes.” 

She lifts herself clumsily up to sit but he stops her. “What do you aim at, Mara?”

She flinches. “I told you not to call me that.”

“I call you whatever I wish. Answer.”

She presses her lips together.

“Answer.”

She narrows her eyes. “Same thing I've always aimed at. My death -- “

“We are past that. Stasia would pay the price.”

Her smile is a grimace. “Or at Stasia's hand.”

He falls silent, expression scrutinizing.

“She'll be of age then.” Claria stands somewhat unsteadily, pained throbbing between her legs with each movement. “Perhaps you can teach her a thing or two in your bed. Much as she resents me, you’ll draw her fear if you kill me before her. Wouldn’t that be a suitable replacement?” 

Her eye roves over him as he lies on his side, all exquisite lines. If the demands are not taxing elsewhere, he would return to her a little broader, with more definition in his arms, a more densely muscled back. 

She'll miss him, it hits her like a blow anew, like she misses herself. Like she misses the girl she used to be when she saw her master as infallible.

The shrewd look on Iska's face vanishes in favor of a tilt of his head. He's always been clouded by vanity, the entitlement of a spoiled son. She's craved everything he's been given. He'd always known it. ”It would, but not now.”

Claria smiles. Now she rather think of how good she is at selecting vessels. It's too bad she's so sore. She considers climbing back on the bed anyway, using her mouth to leave him as raw as she feels. He is in a good mood after her long awaited concession, and might even let her, but Claria's not an adolescent either -- neither in body nor mind. Right now she needs to wash and rest. The day will be long tomorrow. Too long. And after she cannot be certain.

But it's that thought that has her looking back at him from over her shoulder as she says, “You should clean up.”


End file.
